"hem" poems
He felt
great pleasure
watching her
his desires bloom
staring at her two lips
the rarest of all flowers
pedals spread
breathing life into his desires
stiffening a hard stamen
as their bodies take root
folding together like a hem
pumping seed into her cavity
baring the juices of a fruit
into a fountain
that will never end
Apr 29, 2017
Apr 29, 2017 at 8:15 PM UTC
Under the arch of Life, where love and death,
Terror and mystery, guard her shrine, I saw
Beauty enthroned; and though her gaze struck awe,
I drew it in as simply as my breath.
Hers are the eyes which, over and beneath,
The sky and sea bend on thee,—which can draw,
By sea or sky or woman, to one law,
The allotted bondman of her palm and wreath.
This is that Lady Beauty, in whose praise
Thy voice and hand shake still,—long known to thee
By flying hair and fluttering hem,—the beat
Following her daily of thy heart and feet,
How passionately and irretrievably,
In what fond flight, how many ways and days!
12.3k
*Jis Ki Janib Woh Nazar Apni Uttha Lete Hain
Uss Ki Soyee Hui Taqdeer Jaga Dete Hain*
**Towards whom they raise their glance
His resting destiny they awaken in a trance**
*Teri Duzdeeda Nigahon Ko Dua Dete Hain
Jitne Chubte Hain Yeh Teer Utna Maza Dete Hain*
**For your peeking gazes, I pray
The more these arrows wound, the more delighted I lay**
*Jab Se Dekha Hai Unhein Apna Mujhe Hosh Nahin
Jane Kya Cheez Woh Nazroon Se Pila Dete Hain*
**Ever since them I saw, senseless I have become
What they pour from their glances, a mystery it has become**
*Takht Kya Cheez Hai Aur Laal-o-Jawahir Kya Hai
Ishq Wale To Khudai Bhi Loota Dete Hain*
**What is a throne and what are lustrous jewels?
Lovers surrender divinity against the rules**
*Aik Din Aisa Bhi Ata Hai Mohabbat Mein Zaroor
Khud Ko Ghabra Ke Naqab Apna Uttah Lete Hain*
**There is one such moment in love, indeed!
With nervousness, they raise their veil**
*Apni Barbadi Pe Khush Hoon Yeh Suna Hai Jabse
Woh Jisse Apna Samajhte Hain Mitta Dete Hain*
**Happy with my own ruin I am, ever since I have learned
Who they consider their own, obliterated have turned**
*Apne Daman Ko Zara Aap Bacha Kar Rakhna
Sakhat Aahon Se Bhi Hum Aag Laga Dete Hain*
**Your own hem a little, you save and claim
With deep sighs, we set the fire aflame**
*Jis Ki Janib Woh Nazar Apni Uttha Lete Hain
Uss Ki Soyee Hui Taqdeer Jaga Dete Hain*
**Towards whom they raise their glance
His resting destiny they awaken in a trance**
— Translated by Jamil Hussain, Sung by Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan
Oct 26, 2016
Oct 26, 2016 at 8:34 AM UTC
hazelnut coffee cup
cotton button down
hem my skirt
hem my thoughts about your hands
your belt left bruises
your teeth leave marks
your eyes leave me without
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 11:43 PM UTC
A duality of elan vital, two people
Spectres of emotion
Intertwined by a fuselage of bruised skin & tendon
Tissues become orbital, gushing towards grafts
Helixes of snot, **** and lymph
Boy & girl
As they embrace the animating principle and eachother, they fuse
A one piece tapestry adorned seamless with no hem, beginning or end
Always was, always is
Patiently turning to liquid as their being unzips
Lying figures of runny makeup and genetic *****
Quintessence, a texture of synaptic potential
Corpus Callosum
An entirety of self, lost in imbued disintegration
Theory of mind, looped & bound
I will water the thought
Roots envisaged in dystopian amygdala
Piercing data packets with a frost-like intensity
Forgetting our obsolescence moments ago
A neuron dipped in nylon
Theta waves and the non-euclidean crux of dissociation
Ghosts in the machine, your macro god
The sympathies of fractional distillation
Digitised/assimilated unto the nanosphere
Cold hands and brass backs galvanised in oscillated tears
Commodified, sold out and bought
Stretching, from purple, white and black
slowly losing its colour, amorphous in shape
brushed across a smudge, ambiguously chromatic
Monetised flesh god
An eternity bathed in starlight
Cutting an incision in the sky to allow entropy
Divided dimensions of energy
Fleeting and intangible
No longer a delirium of seperation
All semantics become light
As a rusted vehicle passes overhead
And all the worlds questions fade out of existence
Flutters of red tape and foregone growth of practice
Sinew flayed, integrated towards information
Our minds shared
In circuits and resistors
Photons and electrons
We radiate
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 10:49 AM UTC
Come on my Love! Let us move to the East
Where the sun resurrects after his interim death
Where darkness first gives way to light
And life renews itself every morn
Look to the East beyond those crooked hills
Where poplars grow tall in line
And wild weeds hem the edges of pathways
Where bunnies and squirrels hop and jump
And merrily run round the trees
Where the wind moves whistling through bamboo reeds
Where the laughing cataract leaps down from the rocks
And flow along in silvery rills
Where the languorous breeze plays upon the leaves
Away from the tumult, far from the crazy crowd
With the pandemonium of the world
Hushed to serene silence
Let us move to that sequestered glade
Of perennial greenery,
through the sunlit grove
Where we shall walk hands locked
Till the bright day gives way to dusky night
Inhaling night air in scented perfume
Under the stillness of a star lit sky
Through moon blanched woods, mysterious
Listening to the sweet whispering of our soul
And ‘drinking life to the lees’ from the chalice of love
Oh! Come on,
Let us not tarry…. Let’s go!
Dec 1, 2016
Dec 1, 2016 at 6:36 AM UTC
She had that
octopus smile,
always reaching for
something.
I was her small
fish; her handmaid.
I lived in her nebulous
world for far too long.
Inky confusion...
There's a reason for
your treason, said the
old man to the shark,
but Hem forgot, a beast
is a beast, they do
beastly things.
We all have to eat.
I'm done being the
meal.
It's your Ocean,
I'm just trying to
swim in it.
You're an oyster,
and I want your
pearl,
but I won't drown
for it.
Nov 16, 2021
Nov 16, 2021 at 7:34 AM UTC
Enid removes her glasses
wipes them
on the hem
of her skirt
tries to clean off
the smeariness
she breathes on them
they cloud up
she wipes them again
I watch her
near the wall
of the playground
after lunch
waiting for her
are they better now?
she asks me
I look through them
the view is magnified
a million times
one big blur to me
yes that's better
I say
giving them
back to her
and watching
as she puts them
back on
pushes the wire arms
over her ears
then pulls the hair
over her ears again
is it all right now?
she asks me
sure I can see your eyes
clear as day
she nods
and looks
at the playground
and the other kids at play
why do some boys
call me four eyes?
or ugly bucket?
she asks
some kids are just finks
ignore them
I tell her
I can't help it
if I have to wear glasses
or am ugly
she says
intelligent people
wear glasses
and hey you're not ugly
I think you are
quite a pretty girl
as they go
she looks at me doubtfully
and then at the kids
and look Mrs M
wears glasses
and she's a teacher
and bright
Enid sighs and sits
on the steps
leading down
into the playground
even my dad thinks
I'm ugly
she says softly
you're old man
wouldn't know prettiness
if it came up
and introduced itself
I say
she smiles
do you think
I'm ugly?
I frown and peer at her
look I'm no expert
being a 9 year old kid
like you
but you can be
my Maid Marion
to my Robin Hood any day
could I?
she says
sure you could
she smiles wider
and says
thank you Benny
and walks down
into the playground
and goes play skip rope
with a couple of girls
by a wall
and I walk
down into
the playground
feeling six feet tall.
Mar 13, 2015
Mar 13, 2015 at 3:53 AM UTC
On a thin ribbon of light
unfurled from unseen heaven
direct to her parted robe
and disquieted ear
comes an angel’s voice,
the dove’s winged companion,
with words foretold in the book
now slipping to the floor.
What hunger fires
our flickering imaginations,
that require Grace come
wrapped in velvet purses-
with proof of the child’s
purity dripping from tables
and prophet encrusted walls?
I think they had it all wrong-
Fra Angelico, Veronese, van Ecyk,
and even Martini with his
gilded apprehension.
I prefer a scene without
unblemished lilies-
no fine linens, puffing cherubs,
or embroidered pillows on display.
I picture her instead
at her daily labor- pulling
on a ***** rope at the village well.
With calloused hands, she
draws her trembling reflection
skyward, when, announced
by the slightest breeze,
a stranger appears.
Before their eyes meet,
a bird’s flight distracts her-
water splashes from the bucket
washing the dust from her feet
and soaking the tattered hem
of her robe. His silent glance
holds her only for a moment.
In the distance, a voice
calls out, “Daughter!”
She turns, sets off,
bowing to her burden.
A cloud’s shadow
melts in the heat of the road.
Tom Spencer © 2018
Mar 15, 2018
Mar 15, 2018 at 8:30 AM UTC
his lips would remind you of cold tuesday afternoons made for coffee and falling apart. he never really kissed with so much intimacy but he kissed me nonetheless, and maybe those were enough — those steady, demanding kisses, until all i'm left with are sighs and shoulders carved with his name. my fingers, lost in his hair, like withered roses catching fire. my lips, swollen and red, like sunsets begging for the night to come home. my heartbeats, carelessly, hastily stitched inside the hem of his sleeves.
but i stayed in his apartment, slept in his bed, and wore his clothes; like an incoherent word misplaced in a haystack, like a poem, half-naked on the kitchen sink, unraveled by the faintest brushes of skin. slow and claiming. fast and rough. he never really held me close enough, tight enough, but he held me nonetheless, and for a while — just for a while, i could pretend that he wasn't the embodiment of all the things i got to hold but could never get to keep.
he never really looked at me with love or with an intensity that burns, but he gazed nonetheless — almost lost and lust-hazed; calculating and restrained, like i was every poetry he wasn't supposed to write but had written anyway. and i gazed back, at my hands resting against steady movement of his chest, at his dim-morning eyes, at the slight part of his lips.
and his lips — i know they would remind you of cold tuesday afternoons, made for coffee and falling apart. and i know that it wasn't love.
it wasn't love,
but it's pretty close.
Nov 11, 2019
Nov 11, 2019 at 7:29 AM UTC
Deep within a leafy dell
There lived a hairy fairy
Who very often cast a spell
That was frightening and scary.
The only friend the fairy had
Was an old green warty toad,
He never thought the fairy bad,
Just lonely and old.
So he’d sit with her and croak
And watch her practice magic.
She very rarely often spoke,
This to him was tragic.
The fairy dress; the fairy wore
Had seen better days.
It was ***** tattered, creased and tore
The hem hung loose in frays.
Her head seemed always in a cloud,
He never saw her smile,
Her wand no longer taut and proud
But still she was not vile.
Somewhere inside he saw her love;
He longed to be her mate,
So he prayed to God above
And asked her for a date.
She thought he saw her as a joke.
He was playing with her heart.
Up she went, in a puff of smoke,
That gave the toad a start.
Never having seen this done before
He had a mixed-up feeling.
His warts and looks she must abhor
And she found him unappealing.
For days he waited there for her
Because he was alarmed;
A toad and fairy love was rare
He thought she might be charmed.
If she would only hear him out,
That he may just explain.
Then she, he felt, could have no doubt
His love just would not wane.
But if his looks she hated so,
Then this he’d have to take.
He’d just hop-off; away he’d go,
Take bravely his mistake.
He realised, ‘how sad it is,
I never asked her name.’
With one loud bang and mighty ****
Back to his side she came.
“It occurred to me, you might be kind,
My name is Nuff,” the fairy cried,
“And I can read your mind.”
“Fairy Nuff,” the toad replied.
Then she kissed him on his cheek
A shock that made him wince.
Before he had a chance to speak
He was a fairy Prince.
She was beautiful and young,
Like his clothes, hers were new.
A love that’s ‘Magic’ is not wrong
Especially for these two.
Dec 7, 2009
Dec 7, 2009 at 11:13 AM UTC
The border to me
XUAN CARLOS ESPINOZA-CUELLAR·WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 21, 2015
The border to me is a constant anguish,
A big pause button,
Often in dreams I dream of Mexico as my lover
And he waits for me,
And waits.
The border to me is my grandma’s rosary,
She said she’d hold on until I could go back,
Until she couldn’t.
I recently found out that for years she’d scold my cousins for using my table games “he’s coming back, and he’ll ask for them…”
And she’d save t hem in her old, rusty closet.
The border to me is a big pause button,
I often dream of going back,
Who will I be then, when I hit play?
Who will I speak with to recover my grandmother’s prayers,
To collect 12 years of unclaimed hugs,
All the wrinkles and gray hairs I missed on her hair,
And every step I couldn’t walk by her.
But one day I will cross back,
In the middle of songs and candles I will conjure her spirit,
And I will look in the back of that old closet
Where she saved my table games
And there I will find her love
And her songs, her advice, her songs,
And the little pieces she left for me, hidden for me,
When she envisioned the day
That this pause would be over.
Oct 28, 2015
Oct 28, 2015 at 7:28 PM UTC
There's a contentious subsection
Of the homosexual community
That go in a different direction
Hoping to find social immunity
The word masculine
Is the mask they're in
To live life saccharine
Wearing a plastic grin
From the sensation
Of over-compensation
Actuating placation
To differentiate
From the effeminate
They say they're separate
But really they're just desperate
To be accepted
By their own dejectors
To not be rejected
They become defectors
To avoid ridicule
They stack their deck with nothing but physicality
Their mind minuscule
The albatross on their neck is a lack of personality
To please those that compare them to **********
Internalizing their homophobia
An infernal mighty cornucopia
Creating an over abundance of rules
One must follow to be a proper male
But we should jump out of the pool
If being miserable is what that entails
The more genuine version we see
The happier we all should be
Then we might all be free
But if I were to show glee
Someone might call me a ******
And I don't think I could hack it
When the rest of society backs it
With an approval that is tacit
So I convince myself I'm avoiding identity politics
Using total discretion
To make no impression
But my friends and family would know that's not what I'm doing
So why not tell them?
I haw and I hem
Because the underlying ghostly shame
Is the true nature of this social game
When you have the fame of the flame
You're told to get in a lane of the same
Erase my ******* sin
With the title masculine
There are practical reasons to hide it
But how much time will be bided?
Will my life be derided
Until the evil are delighted?
Jul 16, 2018
Jul 16, 2018 at 12:58 AM UTC
with well worked hands
he pulls on the sea
like the hem of a pale skirt dancing 'round his lovers hips
it's what she loves about him most
the way that the tide ebbs and flows
with the rise and fall of his sun-stained chest
seashells
and gull feathers
and bits of fishing net
woven into his hair
like the threads of canvas sails
aqueous thunder-head eyes
look like they've seen the fall of every empire
and soon
they'll witness the fall of ours
he smells of salt-cured wood and the sun
and it's the kind of smell you'll never forget
nor properly describe
he moves like magic
like waves
lapping at the shoreline in the calm of dusk
with an anxious tongue
and an appetite that's never satisfied
he licks the wounds of any heart
he's strong enough to bare the weight of any burden
of any trash barge or sea ferry
ear pressed to his chest
like a conch-shaped vessle
the labor of his heart valves plays like sailor songs
in an empty cabaret
nerve-wrackingly beautiful
Jul 7, 2013
Jul 7, 2013 at 2:34 PM UTC
You pull me through doorways
with cherry red charm.
You fill me with whiskey
and hang on my arm.
We waltz through the wreckage,
the crown and her guest.
Your hem lined in ashes,
the last of what’s left.
The clerk asks for blood.
The stone has run dry.
We promise, tomorrow
and feed him with wine.
The clouds now move faster,
with voice of hard wind.
It speaks to you only
as thunder moves in.
You twist here beside me
and curl like a vine,
your teeth in my shoulder,
reliving some crime.
You hold me so tightly
and whisper your vows.
Your secrets stay hidden.
Your tears are so loud.
Jun 8, 2023
Jun 8, 2023 at 12:43 AM UTC
*I find myself lost
In a never ending frost
For is my anger that dwells
Even when I should not, and well
I hate the way they joke
And talk like regular folk
They laugh about suicide
And they mock and lie and hide
They talk about Ebola
As if saying Hola
I hate the way they make me feel
As if I'm a useless wheel
I want so bad to hurt them
But if not for my friend, who keep my hem
I would gladly go to jail
For an attempted ****** in which I would fail
I hate those who laugh at the less fortunate
And I hate those who smile with amusement
So thank your lucky stars
That my best friend cares from afar
For if not for her compassion
I would wear you as my latest fashion*
Oct 23, 2014
Oct 23, 2014 at 3:20 PM UTC
soft light lips
just hanging from a stem
easy smooth rips
from their fresh new hem
Oct 13, 2014
Oct 13, 2014 at 11:23 PM UTC
It started as a puncture,
but the seam slowly ripped;
a thimble can't protect
from a poison needle tip.
She tried to mend it
by making more holes;
the tear only grew
and grew out of control.
At the spinning wheel
her life would quickly dwindle;
frantic attempts to hem
were depleting the spindle.
What started as a puncture
of seductive sedation
fueled the abuse
of machined perforation.
"Don't mourn a living corpse"
were the last words she said
as she drew the needle
that held the last thread.
Jan 21, 2017
Jan 21, 2017 at 10:56 PM UTC
Oh the sisters of mercy, they are not departed or gone.
They were waiting for me when I thought that I just can't go
on.
And they brought me their comfort and later they brought me
this song.
Oh I hope you run into them, you who've been travelling so
long.
Yes you who must leave everything that you cannot control.
It begins with your family, but soon it comes around to your
soul.
Well I've been where you're hanging, I think I can see how
you're pinned:
When you're not feeling holy, your loneliness says that
you've sinned.
Well they lay down beside me, I made my confession to
them.
They touched both my eyes and I touched the dew on their hem.
If your life is a leaf that the seasons tear off and condemn
they will bind you with love that is graceful and green as a
stem.
When I left they were sleeping, I hope you run into them
soon.
Don't turn on the lights, you can read their address by the
moon.
And you won't make me jealous if I hear that they sweetened
your night:
We weren't lovers like that and besides it would still be all
right,
We weren't lovers like that and besides it would still be all
right.
4.3k
I used to love my curves.
My plump hips,
My thick thighs,
My ***** chest,
My chubby cheeks.
All the curves, stretch marks, and the lumps,
Especially my lumps,
Made me.
And I loved me.
Until I met you.
When we first met, you worshiped my curves.
Kissed on my chest,
Gripped my thighs.
You used to say,
“I love my baby’s fat ***
As you would squeeze my thighs
and I would laugh.
But then reality decided;
“Babe you should really workout some”
*** I really think you should lose some weight”
Or you would talk of other girls,
Thinner girls.
“Country girls are so hot”
“I saw this girl today at work and she was ****
So now I’m looking in a mirror.
In my black sports bra
And my mixed match pink underwear.
All I see looking back,
is not
my plump hips,
My thick thighs,
My ***** chest
Or my chubby cheeks,
Not even my lumps,
Hell, especially my lumps.
I see my belly overflow the hem of my underwear,
I see my ******* resting on my stomach,
I see the extra skin around my neck,
And I notice the way my stomach jiggles when I walk.
The sound of my feet hitting the ground,
The way things vibrate around me when I walk,
My shortness of breath uphill,
And the way my thighs touch each other instead of having that gap.
That cute gap.
That gap that skinny girls have.
But now,
I cover myself more.
The curvy girl who used to wear crop tops confidently,
Now wears a hoodie to hide.
Secretly apologizing to everyone who ever saw her curves.
Her plump hips.
Her thick thighs.
Her ***** chest.
Apologizing to everyone whoever saw,
Her.
And I compare myself to every girl around me.
‘If I had her legs’
‘Her stomach’
‘Her face’
Maybe,
Just maybe,
You would be saying,
“Nerdy girls are hot”
Or bragging to your friends
“I have this girl and she’s so ****
And maybe,
Just maybe,
You would still be here.
And I would laugh,
Smile,
And blush
And we would be happy.
Together.
But instead,
I’m looking at this mirror,
And all I see
Is a fat girl
Looking back at me.
Dec 29, 2018
Dec 29, 2018 at 12:49 PM UTC
Admiration is a word that comes to mind when I think about her work.
The seamstress only has to imagine and she can create a masterpiece of herself.
With every thread, button, and hem she tells a story.
She represents herself with every outfit. Her work molds to her every curve and bump.
She can move effortlessly and not worry about a tair
or loose string.
She can create herself into exactly who she wants to be.
And then there is me.
Who has to fight every zipper,
glare at every neckline,
and gripe at worn out areas that have rubbed and tugged to try and fit
my untamed figure.
The clothes that disguise me only entangle me
in a world of self hate and disappointment.
The number or letter on the tag become scars tattooed in my brain of three words:
not
skinny
enough.
I remember when a boy in line during the 4th grade called me fat ***
I remember when I was taken by my mother to a store that "might have things that fit better."
I remember looking at pictures of myself next to my friends and instantly comparing every inch of myself to theirs.
I remember when I looked at myself and thought, "maybe if you lost 20lbs. you would be attractive."
When the Seamstress looks in the mirror she sees a canvas.
A challenge.
A body that will fit herself.
When I look in the mirror I see a girl fighting to fit in her body.
I see those memories of hiding behind baggy sweaters.
I see countless dressing room breakdowns.
The seamstress must have harsh eyes.
She must have her own burden.
Her clothes may be her own, but is it all a disguise to hide herself too?
Aug 21, 2015
Aug 21, 2015 at 9:43 AM UTC
Give all to love;
Obey thy heart;
Friends, kindred, days,
Estate, good fame,
Plans, credit, and the muse;
Nothing refuse.
'Tis a brave master,
Let it have scope,
Follow it utterly,
Hope beyond hope;
High and more high,
It dives into noon,
With wing unspent,
Untold intent;
But 'tis a god,
Knows its own path,
And the outlets of the sky.
'Tis not for the mean,
It requireth courage stout,
Souls above doubt,
Valor unbending;
Such 'twill reward,
They shall return
More than they were,
And ever ascending.
Leave all for love;—
Yet, hear me, yet,
One word more thy heart behoved,
One pulse more of firm endeavor,
Keep thee to-day,
To-morrow, for ever,
Free as an Arab
Of thy beloved.
Cling with life to the maid;
But when the surprise,
Vague shadow of surmise,
Flits across her ***** young
Of a joy apart from thee,
Free be she, fancy-free,
Do not thou detain a hem,
Nor the palest rose she flung
From her summer diadem.
Though thou loved her as thyself,
As a self of purer clay,
Tho' her parting dims the day,
Stealing grace from all alive,
Heartily know,
When half-gods go,
The gods arrive.
4.2k
I'm made of cobwebs, shaded grays,
echos faded by the murky streetlight;
Festive blobs signal the holidays -
and ricochet off me into the night.
.
A thick, dull fog 'tween me and them,
a brick wall no one can see;
seamless weights in my hem,
and dust inside what used to be me.
.
And then there's you, a year away,
wasted tears, and prayers null;
an end thought for each void day,
a whisper-scratch in my old hull.
.
The words avoid me, skittish things,
like birds that flutter fragile wings;
the right ones are only fledglings,
too young for new beginnings.
.
And I wish that I could care for cold,
worn out flat 'tween mortar and pestle,
a forlorn growth ring in a tree of old,
trapped inside a rotting vessel.
.
.
Dec 17, 2024
Dec 17, 2024 at 12:54 PM UTC
I was seven years old the first time a teacher told me my tank top was inappropriate.
To cover my shoulders,
Cover up,
Close my mouth.
I was seven years old the first time my body was sexualized without my permission.
My body was sexualized without my permission
Before I even knew what that meant.
In the fifth grade I wore long sleeves,
To cover up a different kind of shame.
The kind of shame you give yourself when you’re tired of everyone else’s.
The kind of shame that bleeds before it heals into perfect pink lines,
Parallel with one another because something had to be perfect in my life even if I wasn’t.
But my teacher only noticed the sleeve that fell off my shoulder,
Told me to cover it,
Cover up,
Close my mouth.
I stood in the streets of Paris in eleventh grade, not feeling romantic at all
As I escaped an uncomfortable encounter,
Approached by a man on the subway.
My teacher tugged on the hem of my skirt,
“You dress like this because you want attention”, she said.
It was my fault, she said, because my clothes told him I wanted it.
Wanted him in my personal space, close enough to my face
To smell his breath.
Asking for it.
I should have been covered up.
What I heard in school were the words
****
*****
*****
What I heard my teachers say was applied to girls,
Not women.
Little girls being taught that when we are born female,
We are born with shame engraved into our skin,
Into our hearts.
The only anatomy I ever learned in school,
Was my shameful own,
And to cover it.
Cover up,
Close your mouth.
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 1:28 PM UTC
A baby clutches his mother’s dress
Unaware of how it will save his life
Unwary of the saving grace that will come to rest
The child is soft and clean
His name is Eugenius, the second of three
After Richard, before Michal
He is just a babe, no bigger than an infant can be
A toddler clutches his mother’s dress, the hem
Unaware of tragedy
Unwary of the Horror that awaits him
The child is frightened and shaking
His name is Gene, the second of three
After Richard, before Michal
He is just a little one, no taller than Mama’s knee
A child clutches his mother’s hand
Unaware from behind her skirt as they are herded
Unwary of the disaster to come from the cart
His name is Genie, the second of three
Before Mikey, after Richie
He is just a child, no higher than Tata’s knee
A boy holds his brother’s hand tight
Unaware of the danger he is in
Unwary that the coin from Mama’s skirts will save his life
The boy is healthy and strong, though not for long
His name is Gene, the second of three
Before Michal, after Richard
He is naïve, but soon to grow up prematurely
A prisoner holds his own shirt, unsure
Unaware of the pain that is coming
Unwary that he shall walk away nevermore
The prisoner is hurting and ******
His name is “Gefangene,” the second of two
After Richard, before the crimson mess
He is crying for a ****** towel carried by
A handicap clutches Mama’s leg
Aware that he cannot cry as she shuffles him out
Wary that outside her skirts is the hunt
The handicap is hurting so badly
His name is Gene, the second of three
After Richard, before the new bump
He is unwilling to believe
A kaleka holds tight to his brother’s back
Aware that he is a burden
Wary that he is a load
The kaleka is waiting, waiting.
His name is Gene, second of three
After Richard, before Theresa
The kaleka is ready for release
The dziecko holds again to Mama’s skirt
Aware that he is now free to leave
Wary that he will never be independent
The dziecko is elated and mourning
His name is Gene, the second of three
Before Theresa, after Richard
The dziecko will never be the same
Sixty five years later
Gene holds Rosie’s hand tight
Aware that he is old now, having lived fully
Wary that death is imminent at last
The great-grandfather is peaceful and content
His name is Tata, Grandpa, Gene, husband, and more
He is the last one left of his war
The survivor is ready to reunite with his family
He gives thanks to Hattie’s skirts
That kept him alive though the hurts.
Jul 7, 2017
Jul 7, 2017 at 11:09 AM UTC